by Matthew Dunn
“Or maybe I just wanted to kill things?” Will could feel the tension and aggression in his voice.
The man nodded. “Yes, either-or.” He smiled. “Okay, now let’s think this through.” He scratched the side of his head. “My military knowledge isn’t great, but I know that within the Legion there’s an elite parachute regiment. And I’m pretty sure that within that regiment there’s a small, highly trained Special Forces commando unit.” He pointed a finger at Will. “But you’d need to check out its name.”
“Maybe my military knowledge is better than yours.” Will swallowed, and the action felt uncomfortable. “It’s called the Groupement des Commandos Parachutistes.”
The man clapped slowly. “Excellent. So that would clear up the first five years of your adult life. What next?” He angled his head and smiled. “I have it. You’ve gotten the boys-with-guns thing out of your system, so you go to England. And now you decide to try to flex your brain. So college beckons—that will get rid of another three or four years—but which one should it be?”
“Nothing too high profile.” Will’s chest muscles had now tensed.
The man shook his head. “No, unfortunately your grades were just too good. It has to be Cambridge or Oxford, I’m afraid.”
Will spoke with an edge. “Make it Cambridge.”
“Cambridge it is.” The man folded his arms. “I think you would have studied politics, philosophy, and economics, and I think you would have graduated with a star first-class degree.”
“As you like.”
“As I like indeed.” The man looked serious. “And now we can really add some spice to your profile. Let’s forget mercenary or military contractor or anything like that. Let’s say you were recruited into the British Secret Intelligence Service—MI6, as we sometimes like to call it—and that you’ve worked there ever since.”
Will said nothing. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of anger. He lifted his head and looked at the man. He could feel his pulse rate throbbing in his temples. “You still need to give me a name.”
The man waved this away as a mere detail. “Oh, that’s easy, because no matter what false names you may give yourself, there is only one true name that can ever be yours and yours alone.” He slowly nodded and lowered his voice. “You are the ultimate killer of killers, the man who terrifies his enemies and allies, the man who can start wars and end them, the man who is the West’s deadliest and most secret weapon.” He raised his hand and pointed. “You are the great Will Cochrane. You are Spartan.”
Will stared at the man, desperate not to show the shock he felt.
The American lifted himself up from the floor and walked over to Will. He crouched down directly in front of Will and gazed at him. His eyes were as silver as his hair. “How could I even know that you’re MI6, let alone the man who has been given its most distinguished and deadly code name?”
Will bunched his hand into a fist.
“After all, you’ve traveled into my country under a different passport and with no links to your real identity and vocation.”
Will narrowed his eyes and slowly exhaled. He thought about the man before him, he pictured the bespectacled doctor and the three large men waiting in the corridor outside, and he mentally rehearsed what he could do.
“So how could I possibly know about you, when your existence is kept secret from most of MI6, let alone other agencies?”
Will smiled and looked away for a moment. When he was no longer smiling, he returned his gaze to the man before him. He decided that, despite his injuries, he could kill this man and everyone outside this room in less than thirty seconds.
The man frowned. He looked quickly down at Will’s hands, then back up at his face. He shook his head rapidly and with urgency. “Not that, there’s no need,” he said softly.
Will watched him for a while.
The man shook his head again. “No need.” His eyes had widened.
Will smiled again but kept his fist tightly bunched. “Our games are over. I suggest you speak with candor and speed.”
The man glanced once more at Will’s large fist and then looked upward. “I know about you because I was called by a friend who asked me to get you. That friend told me that if I did not do so, you would do everything in your power to destroy those who might try to keep you captive.”
Will frowned. “You received a call?” His frown slowly faded. “From someone in my organization?”
The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, then spoke quite deliberately. “Not just someone. A man who knows me very well. A man who also happens to be your Controller.”
“Alistair?”
He nodded.
“Why did Alistair tell you that I was with British Intelligence? And why did you decide to help me?”
The man exhaled loudly. “The answer to both questions is the same, but it’s not my place to give you that answer. Only Alistair can do that.”
Will bunched his fist tighter. “How do you know I am Spartan?”
This time the man showed no fear, speaking with steel. “Because your premier authorized Alistair to tell me. I know all about MI6’s brutal Spartan Program. I know that it allows only one man to go through the program and, if he is not dead at the end of it, carry the title Spartan. No others are allowed to go on the program while the current Spartan lives. That Spartan is you.”
Will’s heart raced faster. His Controller was one of the most senior operational members of MI6. For Alistair to have any form of bond with the man before him could only mean that this CIA officer held a similar rank within his own organization. And the fact that the British prime minister had authorized the disclosure of Will’s code name to the American could only mean that the CIA man was exceptionally powerful and trusted. “What’s your name?”
The CIA man looked back at him. His eyes had narrowed to slits and had now become quite cold. “You can call me Patrick.”
Will shook his head slightly. “I still deserve to know why you would help me.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “You deserve nothing of the sort. But I will tell you that Alistair and I share the same debt of gratitude to another man. And that debt brought me to this room today.”
“It’s fortunate for you that you mentioned Alistair’s name.” Will looked toward the door and lowered his voice. “What will happen now?”
Patrick also looked toward the door. “You’re by no means fit to leave this place, but you can’t stay here any longer. Nor can I offer you any more medical support.” He glanced back at Will and frowned. “I’m sorry that someone of your status had to be brought here. I couldn’t take you to an Agency facility. And the men here were the best I could put together at such short notice. But you have to go now, although I suggest you rest up in a hotel somewhere for another week before attempting the flight back to London. One of my men will get you some clothes and set you up with anything else you need. And I presume you have your passport and credit cards safely hidden somewhere in the city?”
“Yes.”
Patrick placed a hand under Will’s elbow and guided him to the exit. But before he opened the door, he turned to face Will fully. He spoke quietly and rapidly. “Take a message back to Alistair. Only Alistair. Tell him the following.” He nodded once. “The strike against us will be massive, and the great or the little will be the victim.”
Four
Will checked the map on his screen and noted that he was nearly halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. He was on a Heathrow-bound British Airways night flight and had paid for a first-class seat to ensure space and privacy. Save for occasional reading lights, the area around him was dark and most of the other passengers were sleeping.
Will had not heeded Patrick’s advice to recuperate for a few days in New York City and instead had taken the next available flight back to London. He wondered now if he’d been wise to do so. Despite havi
ng taken a cocktail of medications before boarding the airplane at JFK, he now felt feverish and in agony. He pulled a thin blanket over his body and tried to sleep again. But the same memory kept coming back.
Soroush, I’m not who you think I am.
I suspected as much.
Good. Then you know who I really work for?
I do.
So you must also know what I’m about to ask from you.
Of course. You wish me to betray my country.
A new sweat broke out under Will’s clothes, and he pulled off the blanket. He opened his eyes, reached for a glass of ice water, and forced half its contents down. His hand shook as he replaced the glass on the table beside him. He now felt very cold again, and he cursed the fever while pulling on the blanket. He looked once more at the electronic map. The plane barely seemed to be moving.
Will shook his head and spoke out loud. “Why the hell did you not get off that bridge when you had the chance, my friend?”
A flight attendant appeared next to him. “Is everything all right?”
He looked up at her. He tried to smile and lied. “Bloody jet lag. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
The woman nodded and produced a sympathetic smile. “Let me know if you need anything. You’re nearly home.”
Will closed his eyes again and this time saw Soroush sitting before him. He was eating breakfast on the day of his death. He looked tired. Reflective and sad. He spoke while shaking his head.
How can there be honor in what I do? How can there be any justification for taking others’ secrets? How can I expect to keep doing this without one day being punished? Maybe today is that day. And maybe that is a good thing.
Five
Will saw the six men as soon as he exited Heathrow’s passport control. He knew that under their jackets they would be armed. They looked at him and he looked at them.
One of the men walked up to him. He had the gait and posture of a Special Forces man, and the men behind him looked similar. The man nodded once at Will and said, “We’re hoping to avoid any trouble, sir.”
Will looked around. To the left and right of the Special Forces men were airport police officers. They held Heckler & Koch submachine guns and were also eyeing Will. He looked back at the man before him and smiled. “If you try to put me into shackles, there’ll be plenty of trouble.”
The man said nothing, nodded, and gestured toward Will’s arm. Will shook his head slightly, and the man quickly withdrew his hand before pointing in the direction of his men.
Will stood for a moment. Then he stepped forward.
The black car turned into the basement parking garage of the MI6 headquarters in Vauxhall Cross, London. In a moment it was stationary, and four men quickly emerged from the vehicle. One of them looked back into the car and said to Will, “Come on, sir, let’s go.”
Will was led toward an elevator, shielded by the men. One of his chaperones withdrew a crude-looking burlap hood and said, “We’ve been given instructions to hide your face from others in this building.” He handed Will the hood. “Sorry.”
Will exhaled slowly and looked at the men around him. “A hood won’t make any difference to me if you try anything silly.”
“We know.”
Will pulled on the heavy hood and was immediately sightless. He felt the elevator move, then stop and heard doors swishing open. Hands gently gripped his arms, and he allowed them to do so. He was guided forward. All around him was quiet. He knew he was being walked down a special wing of the HQ, a place most intelligence officers were not permitted to enter. They stopped, and Will heard a key being inserted into a lock. He breathed deeply. The walk had been excruciating.
He was moved forward again and then pushed down into a chair. Men spoke, and there was audible movement around him. He heard a door open and shut several times, then silence.
“Take your hood off.” The voice came from directly in front of him.
Will did as he was told. He looked around and saw that he was in a windowless room furnished solely with a conference table and surrounding chairs. There was one man in the room, and he sat at the table, opposite Will. Will knew that the man was fifty-seven years old, but he looked ten years younger. His blond hair was pomaded into place. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a Royal Navy tie.
The man looked at Will with glistening eyes. “You are an obstinate liability at times.”
Will smiled. “Hello, Alistair.”
Alistair did not smile. Instead Will’s MI6 Controller pointed a finger at him and asked, “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I was coming straight here. It was unnecessary to get me at the airport.”
“Do you realize what you have done?” Alistair repeated.
Will nodded, tenting his fingertips. “Obviously, I have killed a man.”
Alistair frowned, observing him for a moment, then exhaled slowly and shook his head. “You have done much more than that. You killed MI6’s best-placed Iranian agent, a man who took us into the very heart of Tehran’s decision making and intentions toward the West. You of all people”—Alistair raised his voice—“know that Soroush’s intelligence gave us invaluable insight into the Iranian nuclear program, into Iran’s export and support of terrorist activities, into its conventional military strategy in the Middle East, and into the leadership power struggles within its political machine. And you also know that the intelligence you gleaned from your agent has enabled us, on more than one occasion, to take essential, timely, preemptive actions. Actions that have almost certainly stopped Iran from blundering into war with its neighbors.” The man opened his eyes wide. “You did not just kill a man. You killed a major component of our collective defenses against a hostile and unpredictable regime.”
Will spoke quietly. “You are correct to say that Soroush had unique access to Iranian secrets. But you’ve forgotten that his years of servitude to the British intelligence community gave him significant information about us—information that could not fall into the hands of the Iranians.” Will pointed at Alistair. “Killing Soroush was the only solution. If we had allowed him to be taken away by the Iranians, they would have extracted everything from him via torture before murdering him. I killed Soroush to protect the integrity of what we do and to protect a man from unimaginable torment.”
Alistair shook his head. “You are a rule breaker, and I’ve always tolerated that because of your effectiveness. But even by your standards, engaging in a gunfight in the middle of New York City was the height of recklessness.”
Will reached into a pocket and pulled out three little blister packs of medication. He withdrew pills and threw them into his mouth, wondering how long the painkillers and antifever tablets would take to work. A fresh sweat had broken out under his clothes. “I don’t give a damn about rules. All I care about is getting the job done.”
“What you care about is prosecuting and punishing bad people. Thankfully, it just so happens that those bad people are also enemies of the West.” Alistair caught Will’s eyes and held them. “I know why you have an absolute sense of right and wrong; I know where all that unflinching sense of morality started for you. But you have to understand that I am your boss and that there are rules to be followed.”
“Your rules, not mine.” Will looked away for a moment. “My decision to kill Soroush was the correct one.”
“Your decision,” Alistair snapped, “very nearly compromised your role. You should have left Soroush to his fate. You know how hard I work to protect your identity and your missions for MI6. You are our most clandestine officer, and only the chief of MI6 and I know about your existence.”
“Not anymore. Apparently you told a CIA man called Patrick who I was.”
Alistair tapped a finger on the table. “What did Patrick say to you?”
Will swallowed to try to dislodge
a pill stuck in his throat. “He said the strike against us will be massive and the great or the little will be the victim.”
Alistair spoke sharply. “Victim or victims?”
“Victim.” Will frowned. “What does it mean?”
His Controller glanced away for a moment. “As far as certain inflammatory Iranian commentators are concerned, America is the Great Satan and Britain is the Little Satan. Iran clearly intends to do battle with evil.” Alistair smiled briefly, then looked serious. “Soroush’s death has come at the worst possible time.” He spoke the words quietly, and they did not necessarily seem directed at Will. Louder, he said, “Tell me what you know about Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and specifically its IRGC Qods Force.”
Will chuckled. “As head of the Middle East and Africa Controllerate, you should have whole teams of analysts who could produce reports on the IRGC for you, I’d have thought.”
“I do.” Alistair looked back at Will. “But given your time spent with Soroush, you should have a bit of knowledge on the subject. And I don’t have time right now to wade through reports.”
“All right.” Will adjusted his position in his chair and felt fresh pain sear across his stomach. “The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps is the component of the Iranian military used to enforce and protect the principles of the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Its exact size is unknown, but it’s estimated that the IRGC is approximately one hundred and twenty thousand strong and with its own army, air force, and navy. It is almost certainly structured along the same lines as Iran’s conventional military forces. The IRGC Qods Force, translated as ‘Jerusalem Force,’ is a small unit of the IRGC. It is tasked with special operations, including assassinations, export of terrorism, and intelligence gathering.”
“And why have we never been able to recruit a Qods Force officer?”
